


Fighter

by LuthienLuinwe



Series: Chronic [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Chronic Illness, Chronic Pain, Crying, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, F/M, Frustration, Lupus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-06-03
Packaged: 2019-04-17 14:40:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14191212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuthienLuinwe/pseuds/LuthienLuinwe
Summary: Lupus didn't care. Lupus didn't care that Dick Grayson was only twenty-four and in the prime of his crime-fighting life. Lupus didn't care that he had a good, stable job at the Bludhaven Police Department. And Lupus certainly didn't care that he had a girlfriend he loved dearly and wanted to spend the rest of his life with and he wasn't entirely sure she could deal with this, any of it.Cross-posted from FF.Net





	1. Chapter 1

Lupus didn't care. Lupus didn't care that Dick Grayson was only twenty-four and in the prime of his crime-fighting life. Lupus didn't care that he had a good, stable job at the Bludhaven Police Department. And Lupus certainly didn't care that he had a girlfriend he loved dearly and wanted to spend the rest of his life with and he wasn't entirely sure she could deal with this, any of it.

He had first noticed it in his knees. He had woken up one morning with a dull ache in both of them, but he wasn't too worried. He'd been fighting crime since he was nine, for God's sake. He'd dislocated both kneecaps more times than he could count, not to mention hyper-extensions and other injuries. It was probably nothing, at least nothing to be too concerned about. He was a God damned vigilante. He was bound to have a few aches and pains.

The pain had come and gone, and he had dealt with it as best as he could.

And then the headache had started. But it was flu season, and he had just assumed he was catching the local strain that had been circulating around the station. But the headache had lasted for weeks, not days, and he showed no signs of shaking it any time soon.

But all of that had been bearable.

Until he found himself sleeping for 15 hours a day, missing work and patrols, and barely being able to function during the few hours he actually was awake.

He had thought maybe he'd gotten mono. It wasn't impossible. Jason had gotten it when he was a teenager, and it seemed like the symptoms were similar. Yes. It was probably mono. And he would just sleep it off.

He had been lying in bed. His phone had been going off, but he had been too damn exhausted to roll over and answer it. So he wasn't too surprised when, a few hours later, he heard a knock at the door followed by some not-so-quiet yelling. "Grayson!" the voice demanded. "Open this door before I kick it in!"

Damian. Of course it was Damian. Dick had missed their weekly dinner with Bruce and Alfred, had been to exhaust and too achy to go. And he had forgotten to text the family to let them know. He shut his eyes and took a deep breath.

It had taken every ounce of energy he had in him to open that damn door.

He looked like shit. He was wearing the same sweatpants he'd put on a few nights before and never bothered to get out of, his shirt was crumpled and stained, and he hadn't combed his hair in what felt like an eternity. "Hey, Dami," he greeted, kicking himself for not being able to hide the fatigue in his voice.

"Good. You are alive," Damian seemed to approve, then frown. "You look terrible. Are you ill?"

Dick just nodded. "I'll get over it soon," he promised and hoped to God Damian would just go home.

He didn't even have the energy to sit and talk.

He had gone to the doctor and explained his symptoms. He had been told he was probably just depressed (no, that felt different. He knew that, even if he would never admit it to another living soul). Or maybe his thyroid was out of whack.

But every damn test had come back fine.

Weeks went by. The aches started appearing in his elbows. In his shoulders. Hell, even the joints on his fingers. He could barely walk some days, could barely function on most. Nightwing hadn't been seen in Bludhaven in almost two months. The crime rate had skyrocketed. And he just sat there, lying in his bed, not being able to do a damned thing about it.

"We never go out anymore," Kori had said on a long, draining phone call. "We barely even talk. What's going on?"

"I don't know," he had responded, because, in all honesty, he didn't. He didn't know why he was sleeping all the damn time. He didn't know why he could barely remember the things he was told even seconds after being told them. He didn't know why going out in the sun for even short periods of time caused him to get burned. He didn't know why his body had suddenly decided to crap out on him.

"You need to figure it out, then," she had responded. "Because I can't keep doing this."

He wanted to fight, to argue that she didn't understand, to point out that he didn't even understand what was happening. He wasn't being lazy. He wasn't ignoring her. He. Just. Couldn't. Do. Anything. Anymore.

And so he had gone to another doctor and relayed his symptoms again. And he had gone home with a shiny new prescription for a steroid and prescription strength Advil to take for two weeks. By then, the doctor had said, he'd be back to normal. Had sent him to a sleep specialist who had confirmed that, no, it wasn't a sleep-related issue.

And the two weeks had passed.

And the joint pain had gotten worse. And his lower back was constantly hurting, and he knew that couldn't have meant anything good. And he was sleeping 18 hours a day. And a stupid rash going across his cheeks and nose had appeared and dear God it burned.

He had trudged through the door to his apartment, threw his bag wherever it fell, and all but collapsed onto his couch, not even registering that Bruce was already sitting there until he heard the man speak. "Dick," he had stated, his voice deep, full of... concern? Man, he must have really been losing it. "What's going on?" he asked. "Nightwing's been missing for weeks. You haven't been missing. Some of the League thought you were…" he trailed off, unable to finish the thought.

And Dick had completely broken down on him. Had cried ugly tears. Had sobbed violently. And Bruce had held him and asked what was wrong, but Dick had just shook his head because how could he explain what was wrong when everyone kept telling him he was fine? "I don't know," he had managed to choke out. "I don't know what's wrong with me."

And Bruce had demanded Dick return to the manor with him, and Dick didn't even have enough fight left in him to argue.

Bruce had taken him to Alfred.

Alfred had taken him to Leslie.

And Leslie had sent him to the God-damned emergency room.

And he had been pumped full of fluids and more steroids and told to go back home. He would be fine in a few days.

And Bruce and Alfred and Leslie had all argued with his doctors about that.

After his hospital stint, Bruce had taken him to see yet another doctor. And Dick was relieved that this doctor had actually listened to him, had believed him. Had told Dick that he wasn't crazy, that it probably wasn't all in his head.

And that doctor had ordered more blood work than Dick had thought possible.

And he had waited three agonizing weeks to get that blood work back. To be told that his ANA had come back positive and that the doctor had sent a referral to a rheumatologist, whose office couldn't see the young vigilante for months, but he didn't care because that meant he wasn't crazy and that there was something wrong with him, and he could live with that.

And he had sat and talked with his rheumatologist for a solid three hours, being told the worst and best news of his life. He wasn't crazy. He was sick. And he would be sick for the rest of his life. But it was treatable. He would maybe even have good days, even though his life had changed forever.

Because lupus didn't care. Lupus didn't care that Dick Grayson was only twenty-four and in the prime of his crime-fighting life. Lupus didn't care that he had a good, stable job at the Bludhaven Police Department. And Lupus certainly didn't care that it had caused him to lose a girlfriend he had loved and wanted to spend the rest of his life with.

But Dick was a fighter. He'd been a fighter even before Bruce had taken him under his wing. And he was going to fight it.

And he was going to win.


	2. Proxy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was not originally going to add to this work, but then I decided to add a chapter showing some of the uglier parts of it. I hope you enjoy!

_On a scale from one to ten how bad is the pain?_

_Seven._

_Are you sure?_

_Maybe an eight._

He hadn’t wanted to go to the emergency room. He’d tried to hide it. He’d gone out on patrol. Bruce had argued with him. Dick had lied and said he was feeling fine, even if a ‘good’ day for him meant he was still at at least a four on the pain scale. Not to mention his new meds were slowly killing him. He had a theory. He had a theory that his doctor calculated how much medication it would take to kill him and subtracted one milligram from it.

_Are you on any medications?_

_Plaquenil, 360 milligrams. Prednisone, 20 milligrams. Naproxen, 250 milligrams twice a day. Drisdol 50,000 IU once a week. Iron supplement. B12 supplement. Omega 3 supplement…_

They hadn’t run that far, but he couldn’t catch his breath. He had to lean against Bruce for support, and for once he didn’t care what any onlookers would thing. Nightwing leaned over Batman? What happened? Was he injured? He’d take an injury over whatever the hell was going on any day. “You okay?” Bruce asked. Dick couldn’t see the frown behind the cowl, but he knew it was there.

“Fine,” he said, though it came out more labored than he wanted it too. He tried to take a deep breath, and held down a wince when he felt like he was being stabbed in the lungs.

_Any allergies?_

_Latex. Penicillin._

He stared at the oxygen tank sitting next to his bed at the manor. He’d moved back in shortly after his diagnosis, even if he wasn’t happy about it. He sat cross-legged on his bed, glaring at the machine next to it. Wouldn’t that be great if he ever brought anyone over? _Hold on babe, can’t sleep yet. Gotta turn this thing on first._

Sighing, he looped the cannula around his ears, turned the machine on, and lay back. He was still having trouble breathing, but he tried to ignore it. He wanted to believe it was something to do with the patrol, that it had nothing to do with lupus. _If you have severe back pain or trouble breathing, you go to the ER immediately. No exceptions. Understand?_ His rheumatologist had asked. _Yeah. Got it._

_Do you have a DNR or advanced directive?_

_Medical proxy._

_Who?_

_Jason Peters._

He curled up on his side. It felt like someone had shot his knees out, though part of him thought maybe that wouldn’t have been as bad. At least pain like that was temporary. Even on a good day, things lingered. He listened to the humming of the oxygen tank next to him, and frowned when he heard his door click open. “Alfred?”

“Master Dick,” Alfred smiled kindly and flicked the light on. “Master Bruce informed me of what happened during patrol. I wished to check on you. With all due respect, given your circumstances, I do believe it would be wise for you to visit a hospital.”

“I’m fine,” he lied even though every breath hurt and he felt like someone had stabbed him in his lower back.

“You aren’t,” Alfred shook his head and moved over to his side. “And it is perfectly all right not to be.”

_Name and date of birth?_

_Richard Grayson. 11-11-93._

He had reluctantly agreed to go to the hospital. And by the time he and Bruce, as well as Damian who had insisted on making sure everything was okay, arrived at the Gotham Mercy Emergency Room, he was glad Alfred had talked him into it.

They’d been in the waiting room for at least two hours. He had been in a chair with his head rested on Bruce’s shoulder for the first hour. But then what little energy he had had left in him had been zapped and the pain in his back was getting worse and he couldn’t sit up, and he was stuck laying on the grimy floor, face pressed against the cool linoleum, curled up on his side, back to the receptionist.

_How tall are you?_

_Five-ten._

It was hour three when Bruce finally got sick of it. Dick frowned and watched as his adoptive father stood and approached the receptionist. “Can I help you?” he heard the woman ask. He thought he heard Damian mutter a ‘poor woman,’ under his breath.

“We’ve been here for three hours,” Dick shut his eyes and listened. He had expected loveable multi-billionaire Bruce Wayne to charm his way into what he wanted. But that voice definitely belonged to Batman. “You see him over there? The kid collapsed on the floor? That’s my oldest son. I’m not asking for him to be taken back. But can someone _look_ at him?”

_How much do you weigh?_

_175._

_I think we need to re-check that._

And it was still another half an hour before he was taken back to triage.

_Have you ever had dilauded?_

_Yes._

_How do you react?_

_It makes me sick._

He’d been admitted to the hospital and had been there for two days when Jason showed up. “Jason Peters, really?” he laughed and pulled up the chair next to Dick’s bed. Dick rolled his eyes but smiled at him. He was glad Bruce had finally contacted him, and that Jason had actually answered.

“I almost gave your actual name,” Dick defended. “In my defense, I couldn’t think straight.”

_What about morphine?_

_It makes me sick._

“You’re an idiot, you know that,” Jason kicked his legs up onto the bed. Had it been anyone else, Dick would have made a snippy comment. It wasn’t like he was trying to make himself worse. He just didn’t want to worry everyone else around him. They all had enough on their plates without adding him to the list. “Aren’t you supposed to be getting some sort of tests run?”

“Yeah, like an hour ago,” Dick muttered and turned to face Jason, not caring that his Fall Risk bracelet poked out from under the thin blanket. “And they still haven’t done it.”

_I know what I’m doing. He knows what I’m doing. Why don’t you know what I’m doing?_

_Man, someone’s doctor’s really upset._

_Pretty sure that’s your doctor, Dickiebird._

“Sucks, man,” Jason commented and crossed his arms. “Want me to go have a talk with someone about that?” Dick rolled his eyes but smiled at the comment. He had no doubt that Jason’s little ‘talk’ would involve too many actual words.

“It’ll be fine,” Dick assured. He zoned out when Jason started ranting about something or another. He was tired and just wanted to sleep the past few nights off, but he was grateful for the company.

_Now remember. Chest pains, back pain, trouble breathing. You come back to the ER immediately._

_Yeah, got it._

It was a week and a half before he was finally discharged. A nurse wheeled him to the front of the hospital, even though he was perfectly capable of walking himself. They’d even removed the Fall Risk bracelet after the first four days. He glanced around, looking for Bruce or Alfred, and smiled when he saw Jason leaned against a four-door car, even though he knew Jason owned no such vehicle.

“Hey man,” Jason smiled and helped Dick get into the back seat so he could lay down.

_Lots of fluids. Lots of rest. No strenuous activity for at least two weeks._

“I’m benched, aren’t I?” Dick asked, even though he already knew the answer. His doctor would have put the ‘no strenuous activity’ comment in his chart. And he didn’t doubt Tim would have hacked in to grab it and show it to Bruce.

“Don’t worry. I’ll keep your bad guys in line for you,” Jason got into the driver’s seat and started heading to the manor.

“Thanks, Jay,” he smiled and had his first restful sleep in weeks.


End file.
